


fallen leaves gather in the east

by caseyvalhalla



Category: No. 6 - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Boshin War, Japanese Culture, M/M, Minor Violence, Shinsengumi - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-07
Updated: 2014-09-07
Packaged: 2018-02-16 10:17:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,124
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2265993
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/caseyvalhalla/pseuds/caseyvalhalla
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Do you swear unwavering loyalty to the emperor?"</p>
<p>In which Shion is the son of an imperialist lord and Nezumi is a rogue member of the Shinsengumi.  Two houses, both alike in dignity...</p>
            </blockquote>





	fallen leaves gather in the east

**Author's Note:**

> Written and posted to tumblr back in June for No. 6 week. Title is from a haiku by Yosa Buson.
> 
> My notes from the original post: "So I got a brilliant idea for this at work this morning but it quickly grew beyond anything that could be written within a few hours in the evening (and even now this is way later than I wanted to have it posted by) and I didn’t really have time to do the research necessary so
> 
> what you get is a relatively brief snippet of what might be something longer later on. Maybe. Possibly. Anyway, have a vaguely set and mostly out of context Boshin War AU."

“Do you swear unwavering loyalty to the emperor?”

The words in Shion’s ears were as harsh as the rough fabric covering his face, tight around his neck with one hand twisting the burlap bag in place and the other holding his chin tilted painfully upward with a blade that met his naked skin near his collarbone.  He was struggling for breath, for cognition, for some sense of orientation with all his senses muffled, hands grappling at empty air.  He’d been deeply asleep seconds before, could feel the give of the futon beneath his knees, the pull of the yukata over his shoulders, and after a moment or two of stuffy breaths he could hear chaos erupting beyond the thin walls of his room.

The hands gave him a shake, and he could almost hear the way his captor’s teeth clenched, repeating the question in a growl that was low and dangerous but also desperate.  Something was wrong.  Something was off.  Shion swallowed, ears filling up with the sound of his heart racing.

“I don’t understand.”

“You don’t have to!”  The voice rose to a pitch near the end that was nearly panicked, then quieted suddenly.  Shion felt warmth against his back, a hot puff of breath against the fabric covering his ear.  “You’re going to live or die depending on your answer.  If you die, you can die a coward or die an honest man who stands for his convictions.  Which do you choose?”

Shion felt the blade against his throat when he swallowed, and when he inhaled again his mind stilled.  There was a smell… something familiar, unidentifiable, that made him tilt his head toward the voice against his ear.  His captor hissed and the blade pressed closer, and Shion’s breath stuttered.

“My loyalty,” he murmured, mentally following the trail of sweat that trickled down from his forehead as he spoke, wondering what fate his words were going to earn, “has wavered frequently, of late.”

There was a long pause, in which Shion didn’t dare to breathe.  His captor was perfectly still, almost undetectable despite their proximity.

“I respect your sincerity.”  The words were whispered in his ear almost lovingly, and Shion’s mind shuddered to a halt.

He couldn’t process that twinge of thought, the visceral sense of familiarity that ran through his body in that instant.  He was yanked to his feet and dragged across the room, barely tracking his steps as they changed from tatami to wood, tripping down the stairs and falling to his knees in soft grass.  The chaos was louder now, shouts and screams, ringing steel, trampling feet and the thundering hooves of horses.  He thought he smelled smoke, ashes, something thicker and more metallic that made his stomach clench.

“Is that him?”  Another voice erupted from nearby, and the hand behind his neck stilled.  “The heir.”

“It is.”  His captor’s voice changed yet again, brusque and businesslike.  The hand left the back of his neck, tugging the fabric up enough to bare it and tilting his head forward.  Shion’s hands fisted in the grass under his knees and knew what was coming next, before it even arrived.

Cold steel, a katana poised for execution.

His captor’s presence was warm at his side, and a hand cupped his face through the rough cloth.  “Greet death with dignity, Shion,” he murmured, and Shion’s heart stopped.

His breath stuttered, and he blurted only one syllable before a hand clapped painfully over his mouth.  Tears sprang to his eyes and he wasn’t sure if it was because he knew he was about to die or because he knew who was about to kill him.

“Would you excuse us?”  That brusque tone again, somewhere over his head.  “This is quite personal.”

The other man gave a deferential grunt.  Shion wasn’t sure he heard footsteps retreating, lost as he was in a haze of disbelief and despair.  He closed his eyes, hoping the sword was razor sharp.  Hoping it would end quickly and quietly.

The blade left his neck, raising into the air. His mind was blank.

Shion waited.  And waited, heart pounding so that his entire body throbbed with it.  But—

A hand grabbed the back of his yukata and dragged him to his feet and that same voice harsh with desperation whispered in his ear, “Move your feet.”

There was no blade, no loving promise of death, just an arm under his shoulders and a world of darkness around him.  His limbs were trembling and his breath was short and his stomach was churning dangerously.

But he ran.

He ran barefoot over wood, dirt and stone, ignoring the pain of sharp pebbles and caught toes, the suffocating fabric over his face and the burning in his lungs.  The chaotic noise fell behind, lingering in the distance as they made their way through quiet streets, winding deep into the city until all Shion could hear were the muffled pads of their feet and the low, regulated breathing of the man at his side.  Their fingers tangled together, just for an instant, warm and calloused against his skin, and then abruptly they stopped.  Shion stumbled, felt the world tilting, then a hand on his chest and a solid wall against his back.

“Don’t move.”  The voice was brusque again and Shion obeyed it for the first few seconds after the hand holding him still disappeared, too disoriented, too desperate to just breathe to do anything but remain still.

After those seconds passed, though, he reached up and ripped the fabric away from his face, gulping for air and blinking in the unusually bright light of a full moon.  The angled shadows of an alley lay before him, somewhere unfamiliar, likely outside the districts he’d been allowed to venture into after his family moved to Kyoto.  A rustle of fabric drew his attention to the spectre at his side, taller than he’d anticipated, simply dressed in dark hakama, hair tied up in a short tail.  His eyes cut to Shion at the same instant he was stuffing a bundle of blue and white fabric into the yukata folds crossing his chest, and his eyes narrowed.

Shion opened his mouth, uttered that same syllable before his childhood friend, much older than when they’d last met, rushed in to clap a hand over his mouth, hissing a reprimand for silence.

Close up, Shion could make out the stormy gray of his eyes, even in the moonlight.  They narrowed dangerously, and Shion’s brow furrowed defensively in response.

“That’s not my name,” he whispered, low and fierce.  “You don’t know that name, and you don’t know what you just saw.  You will address me as Nezumi.  I’m a ronin you met on the street.  There was nothing remarkable about me or anything I was wearing.”

Shion’s mouth was uncovered slowly, as though testing, and the moment he began to voice the word “But—” the hand clamped down again.

“If you believe otherwise, I will take them your head.  Do you understand?”

Shion swallowed again, but returned his stare with a level gaze.  His panic was fading, giving way to a slow uncertainty, a few spikes of anger.  His— _Nezumi’s_  face was impassive as a brick wall, an older shadow of the stubborn but uncertain boy he used to play with before the family moved here.  Back then his father concerned himself with their daimyo and not with the restoration of the imperial house, and Shion wasn’t forbidden from mingling with servants and villagers, travelers and merchants.  Shion would rather have stayed and managed their lands in his father’s absence, but he was too young—so everyone told him—and his most precious friend disappeared from his life so abruptly it made him uncomfortable.  So he reluctantly followed his family to Kyoto, reluctantly did as he was told.

“Four years,” he whispered back, breathlessly, when Nezumi removed his hand.  Dark brows arched artfully—he’d grown up into something beautiful, Shion realized.  Like a poisonous flower or a fine blade.

“Is that how long it’s been?”  Nezumi’s teeth flashed in the moonlight, voice as sweet as honey.

Shion scowled.

“I’m taller than you now.”

“Hardly.”

“Shh.”  Nezumi pushed him down behind a stack of crates, still for a moment as hurried footsteps approached, veered off in another direction.  He was carefully wound in a crouch, coiled to spring, one hand pressing the flat of a sheathed katana against the ground.  Shion held his breath until he relaxed.

A few heartbeats later he dared to speak again, barely a whisper.  “What’s going on?”

“War.”  Nezumi’s voice was abrupt, devoid of feeling.  He dragged a misshapen bag out of the crate nearest them, dumping the contents on the ground and positioning Shion in front of him.  “Hold still.”

“That’s not an explanation.  –Nezumi,” he stumbled, almost using the name he was supposed to forget.  “If you were supposed to kill me—”

“Some of the guards were trampled by horses.  I picked one of their heads to give to the Captain.  No one else saw your face, so they won’t know the difference.”

Nezumi uncorked a bottle and unceremoniously dumped its contents on Shion’s head.  White powder tickled his nose and he barely muffled a sneeze in his arm.  Nezumi chuckled, close to his ear, fingers ruffling his hair.

“We’re going to play a game,” he intoned as powder puffed and settled on Shion’s shoulders.  “Like when we were kids.  Only this time,  _you_  get to be the princess.”  His fingers were gentle, working through Shion’s hair from root to tip, until he could see the strands dangling white around his face.  “I’ve rescued you from certain death, but now you must escape in disguise.”

“My—”

“They’re dead.”  Nezumi wrapped a shawl around his shoulders, tugged it up over his head.  “Whether they are or not, assume so.  Even if you don’t, as of fifteen minutes ago,  _you_  are dead.  Officially, to everyone but us.”

Shion didn’t respond, head tilted down with the gritty taste of the powder on his tongue, the hood shadowing his eyes.  He thought of plum blossoms, drinking tea with his mother, awkward but not unpleasant walks through the imperial gardens with the girl he was supposed to marry.  All of the things he should have thought of fifteen minutes ago, when he was waiting for his life to end.  At length he felt a weight on the top of his head, warm through the fabric.

“I’m sorry, princess.  Your loyal warrior is a terribly selfish man.”  Nezumi stood slowly, tied the katana back onto his waist, and held out a hand.  “Do you want to live?”

He thought of the blue and white patterned haori Nezumi had hidden from sight, how likely he was to die immediately if anyone found out he’d liberated an imperialist’s son, marked for death.  Shion reached up, and took his hand.

“There’s a long-haired brat with a horse cart and some dogs, three blocks east of here, waiting for an old man who needs a ride to his village.”  Nezumi pulled him to his feet, and passed him the last item from the bag—a walking stick, to complete the disguise.  “Be sure to act the part.”

“And you?”  The question came unbidden to Shion’s mouth.  His feelings were muddled, panic and despair giving way to something cold and blank, like his mind and heart had steeled themselves against feeling to ensure his survival.  This man had been his dearest friend once, had saved his life only to leave everyone else he loved to die.  How did anyone feel about that?

Nezumi stilled, eyes wide, like he’d never expect such a question to be posed of him.  At length the corner of his mouth tilted up, and he reached into the hood to cup his palm against Shion’s cheek.  “If your majesty is so concerned for me, you could show your gratitude with a kiss.  I believe that was our customary reward, if I remember correctly.”

“I’ll reward you if you live.”

Shion felt the words cold in his mouth, watched Nezumi’s expression slip into something more honest and fragile, more like the boy he remembered.  It was a brutal oath to hold him to, when he was staking his life on a civil war.  His loyalties were supposed to lie elsewhere, but Nezumi was defying them all—his comrades, his captains, the shogun himself—for one person.

_Your heart is mine_ , Shion thought, and wondered if Nezumi had realized the same thing.   _You are mine to command.  And I will never forgive you, so I’ll never let you go._

Nezumi took a step back, melting into the shadows, until only the glimmer of his eyes were visible.

“Until we meet again, Shion.”


End file.
